The Bells
by dust on the wind
Summary: Receiving bad news at Christmas is hard. No news at all is worse. Cautionary note: there is no happy ending.
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

* * *

><p>It was such a beautiful night, though so very cold. The snow had held off, after all; the air was fresh and clear, as if newly distilled, and overhead the blackness of the night sky shivered with stars.<p>

Although the streets were still busy, the noise of the traffic outside was barely audible inside the little _Trinitatiskirche_. The service had been long, the readings dull, the sermon almost funereal, and even though the chill coming up from the stone floor set bones to aching, and the unyielding timber of the pews made limbs and flesh prickle with pinpricks, it was all too easy to drift off. In fact, had his wife not nudged him in the ribs with her elbow when the choir stood up to sing, Hans might have slept right through until Christmas morning. As it was, he jumped, blinked, and began to applaud before another sharp dig reminded him of where he was.

The children giggled. They had been tittering on and off all through the service anyway, partly because it was Christmas Eve and they were wildly excited, and partly because, his mother's fond pride notwithstanding, Friedrich looked so ridiculous in his chorister's robes and ruffled collar.

The boys had already sung twice. Hans had slept through _O __Jesulein __süß_, and only stirred fitfully when the choir went flat during _In __Dulci __Jubilo_. But this time he had to pay attention. For the first time ever, one of his children had been given the chance to shine; Friedrich had been awarded a solo part. He had been practicing his single verse of _Still, __still, __still_ for weeks, until even his mother had almost had enough, and his younger siblings, in a rare moment of accord, had stolen his music folder and buried it in the compost heap.

Nevertheless, there was a stirring of family pride, as the organ began to play, and Friedrich stepped forward. Such a handsome boy, too; tall for his age, and sturdily built, with his father's blue eyes. Of course, he didn't often look so innocent, or for that matter, so clean, but he'd scrubbed up well for once. Little wonder that Gretchen had to wipe her eyes. Hans felt a sudden prickling of tears, too; he couldn't understand why, but sadness enfolded him, as he watched his oldest boy.

The introduction finished, and Friedrich opened his mouth. But at the first note, the bells started to ring. Hans leaned forward in his seat, his eyes fixed on his son's face, seeing the words form on Friedrich's lips: _Still, __still, __still __weil's __Kindlein __schlafen __will..._ But all he could hear was the clamour of the bells, which grew ever shriller until it resolved into the tinny dissonance of the cheap alarm clock standing on the little chest of drawers beside the bed.

He rolled towards it, groping around till he found it, and shut it off. Then he flopped back, and tried to return to the little church. But the dream had gone wherever dreams go, leaving only the dull weight of reality. Finally he gave up, and opened his eyes.

It was still dark outside, and icily cold, and through the window he could just glimpse a tiny sliver of empty sky. For a few more minutes he lay gazing at it, without really seeing it, before he pushed himself up from the mattress, and padded across the floor to switch on the light.

The man who stared back at him from the mirror over the tiny washstand appeared old. He splashed his face with cold water, and looked again. Still old, only now he was wet as well. He scrubbed himself dry, and went to the closet to get his clothes; the uniform of a _Luftwaffe _sergeant.

He was almost dressed when a timid knock at the door announced the arrival of Corporal Langenscheidt. "If you please, Sergeant Schultz," he said nervously, "it is almost time for roll call."

"What do you think, I'm stupid or something?" Schultz grumbled. "I know what time it is."

Scarlet with embarrassment, Langenscheidt almost fell over his apology. "I didn't mean...of course you would know...I beg your pardon..."

Schultz scowled him into silence. "Go and make sure the prisoners are in order," he said. "I will be out in a few minutes."

Langenscheidt saluted, mumbled some kind of excuse, and backed out of the room, and Schultz finished buckling his belt; put on his steel helmet, and picked up his rifle.

The letter from Gretchen lay on the nightstand, just beside the clock. _There __must __be __someone __who __could __find __out. __Ask __your __Kommandant, __he's __an __important __man, __he __has __contacts..._

Kommandant Klink, an important man. His only contacts were those officers who hadn't yet learned to avoid his calls. It was a joke. It was laughable. But Schultz wasn't laughing.

He left the barracks, and trudged across the compound towards Barracks 2, which was his own particular responsibility. Every morning, it was his duty to fetch the occupants out into the yard, and to ascertain whether he still had the right number of prisoners. But Langenscheidt had pre-empted him, for once; Colonel Hogan and his men were already lined up, and as Schultz approached, the corporal came to meet him, and saluted. "All the prisoners are present and accounted for, _Herr __Feldwebel_," he announced, his voice wobbling slightly at the end.

"Is that so?" Schultz looked him up and down. Finding nothing to criticize, he grunted, and lumbered past. And even though Langenscheidt had completed the head count, Schultz did it again, slowly and meticulously.

"Hey, Schultz, what's up?" asked Newkirk. "Langenscheidt forget how to count?"

"Well, he's only got ten fingers, you know," remarked Carter.

LeBeau chuckled. "And he's not sure what to do with some of those."

"I could offer a suggestion or two." Newkirk, hands in his pockets, grinned.

Schultz regarded him without expression for a few moments, then, with exaggerated deliberation, took out his notebook, and wrote down all three names. "You are all on report," he informed them. "Showing disrespect towards Corporal Langenscheidt, and speaking in formation without permission."

The silence of amazement lasted barely three seconds, before it detonated into an explosion of protest. Schultz, however, remained unmoved, although he felt a small flutter of shame as he met Colonel Hogan's steady, curious gaze.

"Okay, men, pipe down," said Hogan calmly. "Schultz is just doing his job."

"Well, he might have warned us first," muttered LeBeau, The look in his eyes, as they rested on Schultz, was a promise. On Christmas Day, when the _dinde __aux __marrons_ made its appearance in Barracks 2 (which it would, if within the next twenty-four hours he could get hold of a turkey, some chestnuts, and a decent burgundy to serve with it), there would be no seat at the table for the sergeant of the guard.

The prisoners fell silent, and Schultz went back to the start of the line. But before he could start the count again, Kommandant Klink's voice rang across the parade ground: "Report! Report!"

Schultz spun around. "_Herr __Kommandant_, beg to report, all present and accounted for."

"As it should be," said Klink, his eyes turning to Hogan, bright with malice. "No going home for Christmas for your men, Colonel Hogan."

"Or yours, Kommandant," replied Hogan complacently. "Still, at least you'll get your own furlough...if Burkhalter approves it."

The smile vanished from Klink's face. "That's none of your business, Hogan." He turned and stalked back to the _Kommandantur_, leaving Schultz to dismiss the prisoners.

Schultz did so, and hurried off after the Kommandant, following in his heels so closely that Klink didn't notice his presence, until he turned around after hanging up his coat and cap.

"What the...oh, for heaven's sake, Schultz, what are you doing here?" he demanded.

"_Bitte, __Herr __Kommandant_...I would like...that is to say, my wife would like..."

"Schultz, if you're looking for another three-day pass, you can forget it." Klink brushed past his sergeant to get to the desk. "You know how troublesome the prisoners get at this time of year. As sergeant of the guard, you can't be spared. Anyway, if I can't have leave, nobody else can have leave either." He sat down, leaning well back, and regarded Schultz with a thin-lipped smile.

"It's not that, _Herr __Kommandant_. It's a personal matter, I need your advice. Well, not advice, exactly. It was my wife's idea to ask..."

"Please, Schultz," Klink interrupted, "it's too early in the morning for me to put up with your babbling. Get to the point."

Schultz blinked, stared out of the window, and started again. "_Herr __Kommandant_, I have a son."

"I know, it's in your file. So what?"

"So my son is now aged eighteen."

"As old as that?" Klink's manner relaxed a little. "Well, time flies, doesn't it? I suppose he'll be joining up any time now? You want me to put in a good word for him at the recruiting office. I daresay I could..."

"He was already drafted, last year." Schultz's eyes had started to ache, even to water a little. It was very cold, of course, that must be why. He blinked again, and went on. "They put him into an infantry division, and sent him to the Eastern Front."

"Well, that's very..." Klink's voice trailed off. After a few seconds, he continued, but his voice sounded as if his vocal cords were being squeezed. "That's very commendable. I'm sure you must be proud of him, Schultz."

Schultz sighed. "No. I am not proud of him, I am worried. He has been missing in action since early November. We only just heard."

"Ah." Klink's gaze had shifted slightly, to focus on Schultz's left shoulder. He shifted in his seat, and cleared his throat. "You must be very proud."

"_Herr __Kommandant_," Schultz began. "My wife is very anxious. Would it not be possible...I mean, you are a colonel, you must know someone who would be able to find out...General Burkhalter is a friend of yours, maybe you could ask..." His voice failed him.

Klink shrank back a little, and hunched his shoulders. "Schultz, you know how it is. Thousands of men are missing in action on the Eastern Front. If I were to ask General Burkhalter to try to find one insignificant...to find one man, he'd simply laugh at me. I'm sorry, Schultz, I can't help you." He paused, fidgeting. "But I might be prepared to reconsider your request, and grant you a furlough. I'm sure we could manage without you for a few days."

It was only what Schultz had expected. But he didn't want to have to face Gretchen, and tell her. "Thank you, _Herr __Kommandant_," he said. "Maybe in the new year."

* * *

><p>"What d'you suppose has gotten Schultz all bent out of shape?" Carter, up to his elbows in soapy water, had apparently been pondering this question since roll call, before deciding to throw it open for discussion.<p>

"Who knows?" growled Newkirk. "Maybe he suddenly remembered he's supposed to be a Kraut. Miserable sods, the lot of 'em, can't stand seeing anyone cheerful." He picked up an armful of wet garments and went to hang them on the line.

Hogan had been giving the matter some thought himself. "I don't know," he said, folding his arms. "It's not like him. He's always very keen to keep on our good side. Especially LeBeau's, and especially at this time of year."

LeBeau scowled. "If he thinks he's getting so much as a sugared almond, after putting us on report..."

"I'm not so sure he did," Hogan interrupted.

"Oh, come on, Colonel, he went haring off to Klink's office the second we were dismissed," said Newkirk. "He couldn't wait to go and drop us in it."

"Yeah, who'd have thought Schultz'd turn out to be a snitch?" added Carter resentfully.

"Okay, let's say he did. Why hasn't Klink sent for you three?" Hogan looked from one to the other. "You know he'd jump at the chance to haul you over the coals. So what's he waiting for?"

"Maybe he's gonna let us off till after Christmas," offered Carter, but he didn't sound convinced.

LeBeau laughed. "_Oui_, and maybe he's going to dress up as _père __Noël_, and go around all the barracks with a sackful of presents."

"Well, that'll be a nice surprise for the carollers when they show up, won't it?" said Newkirk.

"You know, Schultz has been pretty short with the other guards the last few days," remarked Kinch. "He tore a strip off Private Weissmann yesterday, for having a button off his uniform. He's been giving Langenscheidt a hard time, too. Maybe the war's finally getting to him, and he's cracking up."

"I sure hope not." Hogan straightened up, tipping his cap back. "We put a lot of time and effort into Schultz. If we lose him now, we could end up losing the whole war."


	2. Chapter 2

It had grown even colder by the time the service finished, and a paper-thin sheen of ice had formed on the cobbles. The children raced on ahead, stopping in front of the shop windows to gaze at the glories inside, lingering a little after Papi and Mami had passed by. They didn't care that the items they most admired came from their father's factory. All the finest toys carried the Schatzi trademark, everyone knew that.

Hans would have liked to join in, press his nose against the glass just as they were doing, and tell them how the little wind-up train actually had a working whistle, and how he had himself come up with the idea of the tap-dancing mouse. But it wouldn't do for a respected business owner to be seen throwing away his dignity and acting like a little boy. That was what Gretchen said, anyway; and he'd learned early in their marriage that life was easier if he went along with whatever Gretchen said. So he restrained himself, and walked sedately on, with his wife on his arm.

Friedrich and Christoph flew past again, racing to be first to the corner, with Johanna just behind them, and Lieschen toddling gamely in the rear. _I should call them back_, thought Hans, but their laughter, and the sound of their feet on the pavement, was such sweet music that he hadn't the heart.

He had left the lights on in the front room of the house, to welcome and warm them on their return; and it was so pleasant, coming in from the cold, abandoning coats and boots and mufflers, and retreating to the cosy haven of the dining room, where supper had been laid out ready. The sitting room was closed, off limits until the _Christkind _had come and gone, leaving presents for everyone; presents which, of course, were made by the Schatzi Toy Company. Why not? They were the very best, after all.

Every so often, Friedrich would catch his father's eye, and grin. He hadn't spoiled it for the others yet; but he was eleven now, and knew exactly how much that old _Christkind_ story was worth. The boy was growing up; from eleven to eighteen was no time at all. Once again, Hans was momentarily overcome with something more than melancholy. Why should he be so sad, tonight of all nights?

Supper was soon over - nobody could eat much, anyway - and Hans, dismissing his momentary gloom, challenged the older children to a game of ludo. Gretchen vanished, ostensibly to tidy up in the kitchen. But the maid would see to that; Gretchen would be in the sitting room, making sure everything was ready.

The game soon became extremely noisy, but when the bell rang to call them to the Christmas tree, all the children fell silent. Even Friedrich's eyes lit up. He turned to his father, but before he could speak, the bell rang again, and kept ringing. And once again, the dream fragmented, and he opened his eyes on the darkness of his room in the barracks at Stalag 13, with the sound of the little alarm clock in his ear.

He shut it off, and sat up. For some time, he just sat. Then he put one hand on the nightstand and pushed himself upright. His hand had fallen by chance on Gretchen's letter; he picked it up, vaguely surprised at how thin and light it was.

_There must be someone who could find out..._

The Kommandant couldn't, or wouldn't. But maybe someone else could.

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><p><em>We three lads of Whitechapel are,<br>__One in a bus, and one in a car,  
><em>_One on a scooter, blowing his hooter,  
><em>_Fell off at Temple Bar, ohhhhh..._

"Oh, for Pete's sakes, Newkirk, that's even worse than the Sunlight Soap one." Carter's voice broke in on the extended _fermata_ with which Newkirk was preparing to introduce the chorus.

Newkirk, cut off in mid-cadence, sent him a glare which should have withered the nose right off his face. "If you don't mind, Andrew, the best part's yet to come - there's a V.A.D. in the second verse, with legs all the way from here to..."

"Not very traditional, Newkirk," interrupted Kinch, but his lips twitched as he tried to keep a straight face.

"Every tradition's got to start somewhere," observed Hogan. "And I remember a couple of V.A.D. girls I'd be happy to start with." He grinned at the visitor from Barracks 10. "All the same, I don't think it's what you're looking for, is it?"

Lieutenant Doyle, the camp's resident choirmaster, remained grave, but his eyes glittered with laughter. "No, I'm afraid not, Newkirk. We don't want the lads getting overexcited, do we? Let's keep a bit of decorum about the whole business."

The sun was out, and even though it was still cold enough to make brass monkeys nervous, the prisoners were taking advantage of the opportunity to escape the close conditions indoors. Doyle, who had decided that it was absolutely necessary to have carol singing around the camp on Christmas Eve, had come over to find out if there were any requests.

"I kind of like some of the happy ones," said Carter. "You know, like _Jingle Bells_, or _Ding Dong, Merrily On High_. I guess I just like ones with bells in them."

"Well, there's a surprise," muttered Newkirk.

"How about something French?" suggested LeBeau. "You know, I haven't heard _Pat-a-pan_, or _Noël Nouvelet_, since before the war."

"My dear man," replied Doyle, "I can't even get a decent English pronunciation out of them. What possible hope do I have with French?"

"Well, how about..." Kinch broke off, as Schultz appeared around the end of the barracks, and approached with a slow, heavy tread.

"Colonel Hogan," he mumbled, "I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment, in private."

Hogan gazed at him silently for a few seconds, then without a word, opened the barracks door and waved Schultz inside. "Well, Schultz?" he said, closing the door behind him, and folding his arms.

"Colonel Hogan..." Schultz's voice faded off, as if he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. He sat down on the nearest chair, his shoulders drooping; and for a minute or so the only sounds were the gentle creaking of the hut's uneven timbers, and the voices of the men outside as they renewed their discussion.

"Look, Schultz, I haven't got all day," said Hogan at last. "I have to get to town to finish my Christmas shopping. So whatever's on your mind, spit it out."

Schultz sighed. "I want to ask you for a favour."

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of favours," replied Hogan. "You put three of my men on report yesterday. That got you crossed off my list."

"I didn't report them," said Schultz. "You know I wouldn't, not just before Christmas."

Hogan's aspect softened, but only by a fraction. "Okay. Tell me what it is you want, and I'll think about it."

Schultz sighed again. "Colonel Hogan, you have friends outside of Germany. And I know that you have ways of exchanging messages with them. I don't ask questions, but I know." He paused, but Hogan made no comment, although he had tensed. So Schultz cleared his throat, and went on. "These friends of yours - is it possible they could find out whether a German soldier has been taken prisoner?"

"Anyone particular you're interested in, Schultz?" asked Hogan, his eyebrows drawing together.

"_Ja_." Schultz peered up at the American. "Please, Colonel Hogan, you can ask me for whatever you want in return. Anything at all, I will do it, and no questions asked."

"Well...look, his family should hear before long, if he's been captured. But I can write to the Red Cross, and ask them to look into it. And maybe - just maybe, I can make some enquiries elsewhere," said Hogan slowly. "But you know I can't promise, Schultz. I'm just a prisoner like the rest of the guys, there's only so much I can do." He sat down next to Schultz, and picked up the pencil and notepad which Newkirk had been using to keep score during last night's game of gin rummy. "I'll need some details. What's his name?"

"Schultz. Private Friedrich Hans Schultz. I don't know his serial number, but he is eighteen years old."

Hogan glanced up from the page. Then he looked down again. "Private Friedrich Schultz. And his division?"

"Fourth Panzer Army," said Schultz, very low.

Once again, Hogan looked up. Then he put the pencil down, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Where was he stationed, Schultz?" he asked.

Schultz tried to answer; nothing came out. Finally on the third attempt he managed it. "They were defending Kiev in November."

Silence came down between them, like an unexpected fall of snow.

"The Red Cross can't help, if he was in the east," said Hogan at last. "In fact, I'm not sure there's anyone I know of, who could get that information."

Schultz's hands clasped tightly together. Outside, the chatter had died away; Doyle had started singing, in a surprisingly sweet, sympathetic baritone. The words - _O little one sweet, O little one mild_ - were unfamiliar, but Schultz knew the tune very well.

"Schultz," said Hogan, "are you sure - absolutely sure - that you want to know?"

"That is a German song." Langenscheidt's voice, on the other side of the door.

"My dear Langenscheidt, music has no nationality," replied Doyle, in a cool, condescending tone. "I assure you, we are not at war with Bach, and there are no rules, as far as I know, against singing his music in camp."

"Oh, no, of course not, _Herr Leutnant_," stammered Langenscheidt. "I did not mean...it sounded very pretty, _Herr Leutnant_. I remember when I was a boy, we used to sing it in the church at Christmas. And _Es ist ein Ros entsprungen_, and...and _Vom Himmel hoch da komm' ich her_."

"We sang all of those at St Andrew's, when I was a chorister," said Doyle. "Though I must say, we learned them in English. What else did you sing, Langenscheidt?"

"Well...the one I liked best..." Langenscheidt hesitated, then, very softly and tentatively, he began to sing.

_Still, still, still, weil's Kindlein schlafen will.  
><em>_Die Engel tun schön musizieren, vor dem Kindlein jubilieren.  
><em>_Still, still, still, weil's Kindlein schlafen will._

Doyle joined in within the first few notes, and Carter started humming an improvised harmony. Schultz's eyes were stinging again. He closed them very tightly; he couldn't cry in front of Colonel Hogan. "_Ja,_ Colonel Hogan, I am sure. Not knowing is much worse."

"Okay, Schultz," sighed Hogan. "I'll see what I can do. But don't get your hopes up. Because the chances are..." He didn't finish, but the look in his eyes completed the thought. _The chances are, there is no hope_.

"I know," said Schultz. "Thank you, Colonel Hogan."

He got to his feet, as weary as an old man. Hogan stood up, too, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you ask Klink for some time off? I think you should go home, Schultz."

"But how will you let me know, if there is any news?"

Hogan's reply was gentle, but firm. "Schultz, go home." And Schultz nodded, took a slow, deep breath, and left the barracks.

The song broke up as he emerged, and Langenscheidt jerked to attention, flushing. "If you please, Sergeant, I was just..."

"I heard." Schultz managed to find a smile, though it was far from jolly. "I like that one, too. It reminds me."

"Reminds you of what, Schultz?" asked Kinch. But Schultz had already set off for the Kommandant's office; and Hogan, watching him from the doorway, said nothing.

* * *

><p>It was very late by the time the children went to bed, and Gretchen went up soon afterwards. Hans remained for some time in the sitting room, gazing at the tree in its bright Christmas attire, the day's great and small pleasures playing over in his mind, until he almost dozed off himself.<p>

He woke with a start, and stood up, yawning, then shuffled out, through the dining room, onto the landing. His own bedchamber was directly opposite, but a gleam of light, falling on the stairs from above, aroused his concern. One of the little ones had probably fallen asleep with the light on. He sighed, and started the ascent.

The light showed clearly, a thin bright line at the bottom of the door on the left; Friedrich's room. Very quietly, so as not to wake the boy, Hans opened the door, and crept in.

Friedrich wasn't sleeping. He was sitting in one corner of the broad windowsill, looking out over the little back garden, towards the spire of the _Trinitatiskirche_. Hans went and sat in the other corner, or half-sat, at least; the sill wasn't that wide.

Neither of them spoke; and in the clear, crisp air, not a sound was heard, until the midnight bell began to ring. Twelve strokes, then silence; and in that silence the dream began to fade to white, like an old photograph, until he could hardly see. But he held on, unwilling to let go yet.

How stupid he was, to think there was no hope. As long as there was no news, there had to be hope. But that hope was the heaviest burden of all.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Lieutenant Doyle appeared in a previous story, "Perfect Pitch".

The Schatzi Toy Company: episode reference, _War Takes A Holiday_ (Season 3)

Newkirk's version of _We Three Kings_ is partly traditional; parodies of this carol have been around since before the First World War. As far as I know, however, this is the first time a reference to Temple Bar has found its way in. The Sunlight Soap variation (_While shepherds washed their socks by night_) is entirely traditional.

V.A.D.: Voluntary Aid Detachment

All the German and French carols mentioned can be found on YouTube. _O little one sweet_ is a well-known translation of _O Jesulein süß._

_Still, still, still_ translates as follows:

_Still, still, still, for the child wants to sleep.  
><em>_The angels make beautiful music, rejoicing before the infant  
><em>_Still, still, still, for the child wants to sleep_


End file.
